Work Text:
Stupid job, John thought when he woke up, throat sore and head pounding. He was nauseous beyond belief, too hot and too cold all at once. Stupid job, stupid Sarah, stupid sick people for spreading their germs.
Sarah had kept him late again, covering for another doctor that had gotten sick. He’d worked a double shift, then had to cover a third as Sarah herself fallen ill. Inevitably, of course, that had led to John getting sick, and they weren't even in flu season. He had to admit, though, running around with Sherlock at all times hadn't helped his immune system any. He just couldn't find it in himself to blame Sherlock, even partially, for his illness.
An hour dragged by, John unable to fall back asleep but too achy to move. He wasn't in the mood to let the sickness overcome him, but every time he coughed he felt worse. He knew what he needed: a hot cup of tea and something simple to settle his stomach. The problem was that he could barely shift on the bed without groaning quietly in pain.
He heard his bedroom door creak open and he lifted his heavy head enough to see his flatmate standing in the doorway, a mug of tea and a plate of plain toast in his hands. The man said nothing as he made his way across the room to set both down on the nightstand closest to John. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed, near John’s hip, then brought his hand up and pressed the back of it to John’s forehead.
“What-” John tried, voice harsh.
“Checking your temperature,” Sherlock spoke over him, “obviously.”
“Why-”
“Because you’re ill and I can’t take that measurement by sight.”
“Why-”
“Because I need to assess the severity. I plan on helping you to feel better. Problem?”
“But-”
“I know that, John. Have you ever known me to do anything I didn't want to?”
That silenced John. No, Sherlock never did do anything he didn't want to. No one could force him to do anything, not really. The fact that he had yet to buy milk once in their entire acquaintance was proof enough of that.
Does that mean he cares?
“Of course I do, John. Don’t be ridiculous.”
John blushed. Had he said that out loud?
“Yes, you did. Now stop talking and eat your toast. I’ll get you some paracetamol.”
With that, the man left the room and left a stunned John behind.
Sherlock cared about him, cared enough to try and help him to feel better, or at least enough to not leave him alone in his suffering. John smiled to himself. Then the doctor-turned-patient eased himself up to lean against the headboard and do as told: eat the dry toast and sip at the throat soothing tea.
When Sherlock returned, laptop in one hand and meds in the other, he handed John the pills before he perched himself at the foot of the bed. John took the medication, then slowly finished the toast between sips of tea. He watched Sherlock work quietly on the laptop for a while, content with the gentle clacking of the keys. The fact that the detective had moved upstairs to work, had cared enough to stop working for a moment in the first place, warmed John’s heart.
“Thank you,” he eventually croaked out as he prodded Sherlock’s leg with his foot through the blankets. He merely got a hum in response, the man absorbed in his work, so John decided to lie back down as the paracetamol kicked in, the steady clicking of keys lulling him to sleep.
Nighttime loomed over London, snow falling softly and blanketing the streets. The lights in 221 Baker Street were dark. John quietly made his way back into the flat, a late shift at the surgery holding him much longer than he thought it would. He locked the door behind him and sneaked upstairs, carefully avoiding the creaking fifth and thirteenth steps.
The flat was dark, no surprise there, so assumed his flatmate was still out before he flicked on the the lights. A pained groan erupted from the couch, the dark figure huddling in on itself.
"Sorry," John said and immediately shut the lights back off. There came a whimper from the couch and he took it as an acceptance as he hung his coat on the back of the door, then went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He wasn't tired; too many late nights chasing criminals had forced his circadian rhythm to keep him wide awake at night.
The kettle just began to boil and a high-pitched whine sounded from the living room. Doctor's instincts, or a gut intuition, made him quickly silence the kettle and abandon his efforts for tea in favour of checking up on his flatmate.
"Sherlock?" Eyes adjusted, he saw the figure flinch and he frowned before he tried again, his voice a low whisper. "Sherlock, are you okay?"
He kneeled down by the couch and reached out to touch his friend's back, taking note of the slight trembles wracking through the man's form.
"What's wrong?"
"Head," came the hoarse reply, bit out as if speaking was a monumental effort.
John's own mind flipped through meanings and quickly settled on the most likely.
"Migraine?" He questioned, voice carefully low.
The only response was another shudder ripping through a tense body. John started absently rubbing at Sherlock's back, then let his hand drag carefully, gently up and through the dark locks of Sherlock's head. The trembling all but ceased, and John nodded to himself before he stood and walked back to the kitchen.
Silently, he dug out a bowl and filled it with water, adding some ice to make sure it stayed cold, then wet a flannel and headed back to Sherlock's side. The man winced at the sound of the bowl being set down on the coffee table, but instantly relaxed as a cool cloth was touched to his forehead. John smiled when he heard a quiet sigh.
"You won't like this, but just trust me." He removed the cloth and touched Sherlock's shoulder. "Lean up for a sec."
Sherlock reluctantly complied, nausea and pain washing over him from the movement. John sat down in the empty space and urged Sherlock to lie back down, head in his lap. He heard another sigh as the cloth was replaced and let his other hand lightly stroke at Sherlock's hair.
Time passed by in silence; minutes, hours, he didn't know, but Sherlock's trembles were few and far between while his contented hums (more just quiet breaths, really) were frequent. John had his eyes on Sherlock's face the whole time, searching for any sign that the discomfort was returning or getting worse.
As John leaned forward to re-wet and wring out the flannel, Sherlock risked opening his eyes to look up at him through the dark.
"Why are you doing this," he asked in a low whisper. "You don't have to."
"I know I don't," John answered quietly, a small smile on his face as he put the flannel back to Sherlock's forehead. "You're in pain. Not only am I your doctor, but I'm your friend. I don't like it when you're in pain."
Sherlock hummed, an unknown warmth spreading out from his chest from the tenderness John was showing him.
"Thank you," Sherlock whispered. He closed his eyes and let his mind fill with thoughts, facts, and images of John.
John continued to stare at Sherlock, adoring the fond smile that spread over the usually harsh face. He felt the man's breathing even out and John leaned his head onto the back of the couch, glad Sherlock had finally drifted off.
He spent almost half an hour in silence, gently holding the cool cloth to Sherlock's head as he slept peacefully. The quiet calmed him, and he only had the mind to place the flannel into the bowl and settle his hand on Sherlock's chest before he too fell asleep.
John held his arm close, elbow bent in an attempt to alleviate the pain, appendage pressed to his body. The left one, he thought bitterly, of bloody course. He could barely move his arm, nearly in tears at the sharp pain he got every time he tried. Sherlock would call him an idiot for slipping in the first place.
He’d fallen on the ice on the way home from work, unable to catch a cab, and had landed awkwardly on his arm. He was no stranger to Pain (he was actually close friends with Agony) but he still heard himself whimper every so often.
Half an hour of hurting later, he had finally made his way to Baker Street. Flat in sight, he doubled his efforts and rushed inside. He leaned against the wall of the foyer, able to hear Sherlock playing away on his violin. How could he sneak past the man? Was there even a point in trying to hide the injury? Sherlock had, no doubt, seen him from the window. John sighed and made his way upstairs, the violin ceasing once he’d stepped into the room.
“Idiot,” Sherlock said first thing before he’d even turned around, but the words didn't hold the condescending aire John had expected them to. The violin was carefully put away before the detective turned to look at him. The pale eyes never left his own as Sherlock made his way over. Carefully as he could, a gentleness John had never associated with his flatmate before, the detective helped him out of his coat. John still winced as his arm was jarred.
“Go sit down, John,” the detective said, more of a demand than a suggestion. John didn't question his body as it automatically moved to drop down into his chair.
“Can you get your jumper off?”
John nodded and Sherlock helped him remove the thick garment before leaning over him. He wondered for a moment if Sherlock would ask for his shirt to be removed as well, but relief washed over him when the violinist’s hands smoothed over his shoulder. He watched, awed, as the detective gently inspected his arm.
“This might hurt,” the man mumbled before slowly straightening John’s arm. The doctor let out a pained noise, eyes squeezed shut and head turned away as the tendons in his shoulder pulled harshly.
“You shouldn't have kept it still for so long,” Sherlock stated. “It’s settled where it shouldn't.”
“You don’t say,” John huffed out bitterly.
“Don’t snap at me, John. I’m going to help you.”
“Right. Sorry.”
With that Sherlock’s fingers dug into his arm and John let out a shout. The pressure eased, then started moving, massaging the strained muscle. Once the pain began to ebb away, John opened his eyes to take in the sight of Sherlock hunched over him, only looking away when the pale eyes flashed down to his own. Sherlock smirked at the faint hint of pink that bloomed on the soldiers cheeks.
“Lean forward,” Sherlock said as he moved around to the back of the chair. John complied, then sighed as the pressure started up again.
“Thank you,” John said after a few minutes of the carefully calculated massaging. “I had no idea you knew how to even do this.”
“It’s a good skill to know,” Sherlock shrugged, “especially when I've got a bumbling soldier as a partner.”
“Ex-soldier.”
“No, just a bumbling one.”
John chuckled and pushed back into Sherlock’s hands.
“I’m not a bumbling anything.”
“Of course, not,” the words were dripping with sarcasm. “That’s why you managed to completely avoid slipping on the ice and falling on your bad shoulder.”
“Git.”
“Idiot.”
John let out another huff and Sherlock chuckled behind him. The massaging turned less calculated and more caressing, not that John minded, but he took note regardless. Eventually, the hands came to a stop, simply resting on his shoulders for a moment before the slipped away.
“Better?” Sherlock said behind him, voice quiet and careful, almost intimate.
John rolled his shoulder and bent his arm to test it. While it still ached (he knew it would for at least a few days) it no longer felt like he’d been shot again. He hummed in response and stood, then turned to face his flatmate. He was tempted to hug the man for fixing his shoulder, but the chair sat between them as a barrier.
“Much,” he said after a moment. “Thank you.”
Sherlock nodded and moved around the chair, immediately headed back to his violin.
“Tea,” he asked, a request for John to make it as opposed to the offer it sounded like.
“Yeah,” John breathed out. He watched Sherlock’s hands draw the bow up and over the instrument, entranced by the fingers dancing over the strings, then turned and headed to the kitchen.
The groceries crashed to the floor as John took in the sight before him. Sherlock Holmes sitting on the couch and hunched over, hands buried in his hair, sleeve rolled up. Even the damn tourniquet was still hanging loose from his arm.
“I’m sorry,” came quiet words from the couch. “John, I’m sorry. Please-”
“Shut up.”
“John, please-”
“I said shut up, Sherlock!”
Silence reigned as the detective’s mouth snapped shut. John counted to ten in his head, then fifty. He was tempted to leave, turn around, walk away, and never return, but the sight of Sherlock’s pleading, guilty face pulled him forwards and into the flat. Sherlock visibly relaxed as John stepped closer, but when he noticed the rage emanating from the doctor his body tensed.
“John? John, listen-”
“Shut. Up. Sherlock.”
John kneeled down before him and pulled the tourniquet off his arm, then gathered the needle, the kit, the drugs, all of it into his hands, and stood up. He went to the kitchen and tossed the materials into the trash with enough force to break the glass syringe. Then he went to the sink and poured the drugs down the drain and threw the empty bottle into the trash as well.
John gripped the counter, eyes squeezed shut. It had been over a month and a half since the last case, and Sherlock had relapsed, loath he was to the word. The man had given in and taken the drugs despite swearing them off, despite having been clean for years. He stood straight and headed back to the living room, back to Sherlock still cowering on the couch, arms wrapped around his own torso.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
John’s anger slipped away at the sight. Sherlock mumbling quietly, arms wrapped around his own torso as he rocked himself back and forth. The detective looked like a child, scared for his life of the monsters in his closet.
“Sherlock,” John whispered as he reached out to touch the man’s shoulder. Sherlock flinched violently away, whimpering, and John saw tear tracks on the his face. He sighed, then (ignoring Sherlock’s rejection of his touch) forced the man to stand and lead him to the bathroom.
“God, Sherlock, what have you done?”
He got the man into the tub, still fully clothed, and started up the shower. Sherlock cried out as the cold water beat down on him, and John had to hold him under the stream until the man’s energy wore out and he simply accepted it.
Time moved on, ignorant of John’s slowly breaking heart as the mumbled apologies started up again through chattering teeth. Once Sherlock tried to stand, and John deemed it a conscious effort, John shut the water off and helped the detective out of the tub.
John quickly worked Sherlock out of his sodden clothes, then briskly toweled him dry. He lead Sherlock straight to the man’s bedroom, knowing an unfamiliar bed would not help the man in the morning. He got Sherlock under the sheets and tucked him in, then turned and left the room.
He picked up the groceries and put them away, then took the trash out to the bins. He removed his wet coat and hung it up on the back of the door, then went to the loo to pick up Sherlock’s pile of wet clothes and added his jumper to the mix as he tossed them into the hamper. He took a deep breath before he headed back into Sherlock’s room.
The man had curled in on himself, trembling under the sheets. His eyes flew open when he heard John and his arm shot out to catch the doctor’s wrist.
“John. I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry. Don’t leave, John. Don’t leave, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not leaving, Sherlock.” John’s voice was hollow, though he knew his words were true. He pried his wrist free from Sherlock’s grasp and walked around to the other side of the bed. He had no second thoughts, no hesitation as he crawled into the bed beside his flatmate and pulled the man close. Sherlock mouthed words against his shoulder, a constant “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” until he drifted off. John didn't sleep that night, kept awake by his worry and Sherlock’s small trembles.
The next morning Sherlock, sober though hungover, apologised profusely and again begged John not to leave.
“Sherlock,” John started, eyes on his mad, brilliant friend’s pale green ones, “if I were leaving, I would have done it last night when I found you on the sofa.”
It was only then that he realised his arms were still around Sherlock’s shoulders, the man himself cradled against his side. He flashed an awkward smile and brought a hand up to run through Sherlock’s curls just to see the detective’s eyes flutter closed.
“But know this,” he continued, “if you ever, ever, do that again, I will leave.”
He tightened his grip and felt Sherlock’s whole body tense.
“You’re better than this, Sherlock, and we both know it. Promise me.”
“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, “yes, John. I promise. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
John turned back to the ceiling and allowed Sherlock’s head to rest on his shoulder. He knew the weeks ahead would be hell, and Sherlock would damn well get consequences for what he’d done, but John swore to himself that he’d help Sherlock through the inevitably painful withdrawal. He’d keep his promise and stay by Sherlock’s side as long as the man kept up his end of the deal.
The door to 221 opened slowly before two figures trudged their way in. The door closed to the night and the darkness of the foyer enclosed them. Typically, post-case, Sherlock would be bouncing off the walls, still running on the high of the puzzle, with John grinning (sometimes rolling his eyes) by his side.
They were silent, however, as they made their way up to their flat. Coats were dropped to the floor or tossed onto the back of chairs, shoes toed off, jumpers and jackets shed as they both headed towards the loo. It was nearly a ritual for them.
Sherlock dropped down onto the lid of the toilet, forearms on his knees and head hung low, while John dug the first aid kit out from under the sink. Sherlock always went first; John’s rule. There was a sharp sting as an alcohol doused cotton ball was dabbed to the cut on his cheek. He let out a hiss, but was sure to not move away.
Words were never needed for this. There were words occasionally; usually yelling or reprimands, hard in contrast to the gentle touch. Typically there was silence as cuts were tended to or stitched up, or sprained wrists or elbows or ankles were bound.
John fixed a plaster over Sherlock’s cheek and smoothed the edges, a small, weary smile on his face as he met the detective’s eyes. It held for a moment, then John’s attentions turned to the violinist’s bruised knuckles.
Cases, fights, that hurt them enough to need attention were few and far between, but Sherlock (though he knew it was wrong) wished for them more often. He wanted the closeness they brought, craved John’s gentle fingers on his skin, soothing away the aches. He was too afraid to ask, terrified that John would reject him, leave though he’d sworn not to, so he kept his mouth shut on the matter.
Only when John confirmed that nothing was broken did he allow Sherlock to switch their positions. The detective kneeled on the floor, carefully inspecting John’s hands first, despite the gash on his doctor’s forehead. Bending wrists, fingers, cleaning any wounds; John’s hands were important. They were the priority over a dried wound on a place that always looked worse than it was.
John always fought to keep himself from curling his fingers around Sherlock’s, always fought to keep himself pliant as Sherlock made sure nothing was damaged. They both already knew, of course. John because it was his own body, he’d done the simple checks, and Sherlock because he paid attention to John.
The pale fingers moved to clean his face and John chuckled quietly as the damp flannel was wiped over the corner of his eye and upper lip. John let his eyes fall closed as Sherlock worked, exhausted by the day’s events. A serial murderer duo, six victims in as many days, a thrilling chase through half of London that ended with an unexpected fight before Lestrade’s team had caught up to them.
Face clean, John felt fingers run along his nose, checking for a break that wasn't there. He flinched as Sherlock dabbed at the cut on his hairline, followed by a mumbled “sorry” and silence. The healing contact shifted to caresses down the side of his face, then a hand running down his arm to squeeze lightly at his hand. John met Sherlock’s eyes, a smile there despite the knowledge that their fleeting moment away from the world was coming to a close.
“Thanks,” John whispered.
He knew he wouldn't get an answer. John never needed a thanks from Sherlock, not if they were equal in injuries and recklessness. Only when Sherlock had done something idiotic to get himself hurt did the doctor demand both apology and thanks.
Sherlock nodded, then stood and moved away, leaving John to clean the mess. Again, John’s rule. He wanted to be sure it was all there, just in case, and Sherlock couldn't blame him.
When John left the bathroom to head up to his own room, the detective’s bedroom door was already closed. He felt a pang of something as he stared at the closed door. Sadness, maybe. Longing? A closed door was the opposite of an invitation, it was a no, and John desperately wished his flatmate would leave the door open, just once, just so he could ask the question that had been on both of their tongues for months.
John shook his head, disappointed in himself for the thoughts. Sherlock wouldn't, his mind reminded him. The man may love him, in his own way, may have made a deal with him to never leave or use again, but he would never agree to a relationship.
Despite the doubt, John couldn't help the glimmer of hope as he looked back over the past year. How much closer they had gotten, how well they’d come to know one another. John knew Sherlock better than anyone ever had, and John knew the reverse was the same.
As he mounted the stairs to his room, John couldn't help but smile. There was hope for them, he knew, and he wouldn't let it fade.
Sherlock paced back and forth across the floor of their living room, one hand in a fist behind his back and the other tugging at his hair. The man was frustrated, the pieces of the case not fitting together. He let out a short shout and flung himself into his chair.
“Problem?” John tried, voice much too upbeat for the detective’s mood.
“It doesn't make any sense,” came the exasperated, half-shouted reply.
“No need to snap. I’m sure you’ll get there. You always do.”
Sherlock groaned and pulled his legs up into the chair, glaring furiously at the wall above the couch. John sighed, knowing a lost cause when he saw one, and headed to the kitchen to make dinner. He knew the detective would be lost in his own head for at least another few hours and he was determined to use the time to his advantage.
The smell of Chicken Alfredo (Angelo’s recipe, but not the Italian’s cooking) pulled Sherlock gently from his mind. His stomach growled, oblivious to the case at hand. Food will slow me down, he tried to reason with the organ, though he knew it wasn't true.
Reluctantly, he stood and followed the smell. John looked over to him and smiled as he finished filling his own plate.
“Made enough for you,” the doctor offered, “if you want it.”
He set his plate down on the counter and was reaching for another when his flatmate spoke.
“Oh,” Sherlock breathed out as the pieces clicked. “Oh! John! You’re brilliant!”
John was unprepared for the arms that swept him up into a bone-crushing hug, and he clung back feebly as the detective spun them around once. Sherlock set him back down and smiled brightly at him, arms still loosely wrapped around John’s waist. Sherlock’s eyes were shining, joy gleaming from the pale blue-green orbs, and John couldn't look away from the amazing sight.
Fuck it, John thought, then reached up and pulled Sherlock down to meet their lips. He felt Sherlock freeze against him, shocked utterly by the contact. Then the arms around him tightened and he was unprepared for the warmth that spread through his chest as the kiss was returned.
Minutes later they broke apart, clutching at each other and out of breath. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock’s already open. They were still shining, brighter, if possible, than they had been for the solution to the case, and John smiled wide.
Months of baby steps, gradually getting closer and closer together. Random days of sickness cared for, casual, healing touches on every injury, weeks spent on Sherlock’s withdraw. Months spent in hope finally come to a head. John surged up to kiss his partner again, but the detective pulled back after only a moment.
“John. As much as I would love to continue this now, I must tell Lestrade our findings before this goes any further.”
The doctor’s smile slipped marginally, enough that Sherlock still caught it. He brought his hands up to cup John’s jaw and gave him a bruising kiss, one that sent fire through both their veins.
“I need to tell him,” Sherlock continued when they broke apart, “so the case doesn't continue to distract me from you.”
John let out a strangled sound but allowed Sherlock to move away. He watched fondly as the detective texted his conclusions to the DI, pacing back and forth across the kitchen. He turned back to pick up his plate and carry it to the table. He’d have his dinner yet, no matter how eager he was with Sherlock. Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock filled a plate (not nearly as full as his own, but enough that John wouldn't complain) and sat down across from him, eating without having to be badgered into it. When John gave him a questioning look, Sherlock smirked.
“Well, I’ll need my energy, won’t I?”
The detective laughed at the blush that spread it’s way over John’s face. He’d managed to eat a quarter of his plate before John recovered.
“Damn right, you’ll need it.” John’s voice had taken on a stern tone, one that immediately pulled Sherlock’s attention. “The case just ended. You’re not leaving this flat for at least a full day. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
It was Sherlock’s turn to blush as the implications of that statement sank in. John smirked and turned back to his food, only getting to eat half the plate before Sherlock dragged him out of the chair and to his bedroom.
They didn't end up leaving the flat for two days.